Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! Most of you probably don't know that today is my birthday. I turn forty-seven fabulous years old, and I don't mind a bit! Seems like the older I get, the better I get: wiser, more sensible, more comfortable being me. Let's face it - many people in their twenties are idiots! I know I was. Most people in their thirties still have a lot to learn. But I think by the time you get half-way through your forties, you finally get a few things figured out, and you stop caring so much what other people think. It's a calmer, easier place to be. Something happened last night, though, that threatened to derail my happy birthday.
I was sitting on the floor playing solitaire - something I frequently do when the t.v. offerings are less than exciting - when favorite cat Junebug calmly plopped a dead mouse down in front of me, then laid down a foot or so away. I believe her thought at the time was something along the lines of, "You can have it, Kelly, I'm done with it." When I examined the poor creature closely and realized there was no bringing him back, my heart sank. The tone in the room immediately changed, and it's been off-kilter ever since.
I'd known for some months that we had a boarder: I kept finding mouse poops in the knife drawer. The knife drawer as litterbox was a mystery to me until it hit me that the cupboard holding the bags of cat food was directly underneath. As long as he wasn't eating my food, his presence didn't bother me. After a time, though, he stopped pooping in the knife drawer, and I didn't give him another thought.
We had a number of mouse boarders when I lived in the converted chicken coop. I always knew when the cats were after them by the way Buddy and Spanky would stake out spots in the laundry room and stare for hours at a small hole in the wall. Once in a while, all five cats would go racing off into the spare bedroom, or the living room, hot on the trail of some poor terrified creature. Most times, I was able to rescue the mouse and set him free outside.
But no one among the cats has done anything like Checkpoint Charlie here at the new place. It was as if we had no mice in the house at all. So I was stunned by the sudden appearance of that poor dead mouse. I looked at Junebug and asked, "Why did you hurt the mouse? It's not good when the mouse gets hurt." She looked up at me, uncertain about the flat tone in my voice. Over the course of the evening, I asked her that same question several times.
In a curious irony, earlier yesterday I had discovered the presence of a mouse - though not the critter himself - in the trunk of my car. I had gone to the trunk to retrieve a spare bag of cracked corn for the ducks. When I popped the lid, I noticed a mouse-sized hole in the bag, and a pile of corn husks on the floor nearby. Glancing at the duffle bag that I keep extra winter clothes in, I saw a pile of duffle bag shavings, as well. Someone had definitely made himself at home!
I went through the duffel bag but found nothing. Before cleaning up the corn husk mess, I grabbed my camera and took pictures of the evidence, so that I'd have something to show you later. Oddly, when I grabbed the same camera to take pictures of the dead mouse, hours later, I found that the damn thing had died on me in the interim. Minolta Freedom Zooms have a way of doing that, and I've gone through three or four of them in the last two years. You'd think I'd have learned after one or two camera deaths, but alas, I'm a creature of habit! I can say this, though: Minolta has done more to push me toward upgrading to a nice Cannon digital than any t.v. advertisement!
In any case, it was too late at night to consider burying the mouse then, so I found a mouse-sized box, wrapped the little fellow in a tissue and tucked him into the box, then put the thing in the freezer until morning. I spent the rest of the evening searching Ebay for yet another Minolta Freedom Zoom Right To The Garbage Can, then staring blankly at Junebug as she lay on the family room floor. She kept glancing up at me in a manner that suggested she knew something was terribly wrong. Her behavior this morning confirmed that understanding.
Junebug's morning priority is kibble. It's the first, most important thing she wants, and every morning, she lets me know this, as though I'd somehow forgotten overnight. But she lingered next to me on the bed, purring as though to reassure me that things weren't as bad as they'd been the night before. Still in a dark frame of mind, I dragged myself to the kitchen and plunked some kibble in her dish. Instead of eating, though, she chose to join me in the bathroom. This was unprecedented. Junebug never passes up a chance to eat fresh kibble! But to my surprise, she jumped up on my lap and purred some more.
It's unlikely that she felt bad about the mouse - that had probably fallen off the radar the minute I put the little guy in the box. But what DID seem likely was that she picked up on my listless tone, and my heavy heart. And those things clearly bothered her. She even went so far as to jump up on the bed when I climbed back in, purring and head-butting in a clear attempt to raise my spirits. So far, she's been unsuccessful. I'm not sure why.
It's not as if I WANT to feel crappy. In fact, I was surprised to have awakened today in the same low frame of mind I was in last night; I assumed I'd sleep it off. But something about that small victim has stayed with me. I genuinely like field mice. They're cute, and they possess a certain assured audacity, attempting to live among us as though it's not a conflict of interest. As a walk down any pest-control aisle in any store will attest, though, most folks are not like me. Which makes me admire their ability to survive in spite of us all the more. I had no more problem sharing my cats' kibble with a mouse than I did sharing the trunk of my car. Call me strange, but that's what makes me the Critter Lady! And therein lay the problem.
I didn't start out in life as a Critter Lady. When I was a child, I never said, "When I grow up, I want to have cats and ducks, and let mice live in my house!" I actually came to critters rather late in the game. I had spent an intense year caring for a sickly, dying cat. The vet had privately given him three months to live - and that had been optimistic. But I poured heart and soul into his care. I did midnight sub-cutaneous saline treatments. I cooked rice in tuna water, just to tempt him to eat something that might firm up his constant diarrhea. I endlessly combed his coat when he became too sick to care for it himself. I did whatever it took, and then some. And my reward was that he chose to keep on going for over a year, exceeding the vet's prediction by ten months. It was the finest thing I've ever done.
When that cat died, I had a lot of pent-up critter-caring energy with no outlet. Slowly, over time, I acquired one cat, then two, then three, four, and five. I found the ducks, who charmed me into a level of involvement I never could have imagined at the time. I met a therapist, who led me to horse therapy, which led me to my now-long-standing association with that wonderful horse rescue facility, The Healing Barn. My life, my house, my heart, and my photo albums, are filled with the animals I've come to love so much. You would think that that would make being the Critter Lady a good and satisfying thing, and for the most part, it does. But caring for so many animals - and being on alert for problems 24/7, can be exhausting. Especially when you lose one.
Fiancee John heard my tone on the phone last night, and offered to come stay with me because of it. I told him I'd like that, but he was absolutely NOT allowed to laugh when I told him why I was upset. To his credit, he didn't laugh. In fact, he reassured me that my caring about whether a field mouse lives or dies is one of the things he loves best about me. I'm very lucky to have found a man who gets me, who understands that ALL critters are a priority for me, no matter how small.
So it's been a rocky start to my forty-seventh year. I hope things improve from here! John and I will be going to our favorite Japanese restaurant tonight, where I plan to drink a big glass of plum wine and try to put this recent loss behind me. After all, there are still lots of critter who need my attention!
That's all for now, folks. I want to wish a Happy Birthday to all my fellow Scorpios - may all your birthdays be great ones! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
slideshow
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
A New Home For Puddleduck
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! Judging from the low temperatures at night here in Northwest Ohio, I guess summer's gone for good this year. Rats! I wasn't quite done yet!
I know that I've mentioned white Pekin Puddleduck in previous blog entries, but I don't recall saying much beyond the fact that he'd taken over caring for Girlfriend Duck after Pretty Boy passed away. In fact, Puddleduck was dumped at McKinnon's Pond a few years ago. He was full-grown at the time, and not too fond of humans. I'm thinking that either he wasn't handled much, growing up, or he'd had bad experiences with humans. Whatever the cause, Puddleduck made sure he never got too close to me.
The handy thing about Alpha ducks like Pretty Boy is that they set the tone for the other domestics: because Pretty Boy wasn't afraid to get close to me (even after repeated pickings-up by me when he needed to go to the vet), the other ducks would follow his lead. They may have been nervous, but they clearly came to some understanding, by watching Pretty Boy's example, that I was relatively harmless.
With Pretty Boy gone, the other ducks have backed off to a certain degree. There still seems to be, though, in the recesses of those little duck brains, a semblance of memory of times past - times when the big hulking human could be trusted, because every now and again, they still come within reach. It's not something that can be relied upon to happen at every feed, but it happens often enough.
For the past month or so, I've noticed a problem with Puddleduck's left leg. Puddleduck always walked with a degree of what looked like bow-leggedness, but lately, he's been favoring that left leg. It looked noticeably weaker, and he invariably ended up using his right wing as a ballast at the feeds. And, increasingly, he's been isolating himself from the crowd. Many times, I'd be surrounded by a horde of ducks - wild mallards and domestics alike - with no sign of Puddleduck at all. If I wandered around to the side of the pond over by the highway, I would usually find Puddleduck off by himself, huddled on the grass.
He swam much better than he walked; on dry land, he was the proverbial sitting duck. I worried about him, and fretted over what to do. The times I decided to catch him and take him to the vet, he proved surprisingly agile and managed to evade capture. After discussing my concerns with Pat Mitchell - who, since the untimely death of Chicken, a month or so ago, has been on the look-out for a new companion for Ducky - we agreed that Puddleduck was a suitable candidate to fill Chicken's shoes at the Mitchell's home. Successfully catching him, though, was another matter entirely.
I sent Pat an email earlier this week, telling her that I would be trying to catch Puddleduck on Friday. She responded with a voice mail on my machine, letting me know what time she would be home to receive him. "She's a lot more optimistic than I am," I thought wryly on Thursday night. From past experience, I can tell you that things rarely go as planned where the ducks are concerned. Even when Pretty Boy was still alive, there were always those days when - for whatever reason - he remained out of reach during the entire feed. Puddleduck, I was sure, would be no different.
My skepticism was coupled with a healthy dose of laziness: lets face it, anything outside your usual routine is a hassle, and the ducks are no exception. Sometimes, I just want things to be easy, and wrestling with an unwilling duck is never easy. My brain overcame my lethargy, though, when it reminded me, "There's no way he can survive on the pond this winter! Catch him now while you still can!" Sighing deeply as I drove to the pond, I resigned myself to the task.
It didn't help that I had an appointment with the eye doctor first. It was my annual visit, complete with the pupil-dilating drops that made being anywhere near a light source quite painful for several hours after the exam. And the pond, reflecting the bright sunshine of a beautiful late-fall day, was one hell of a light source! Squinting as I walked along the side of the pond, I could make out the faint shapes of Mama, Freckle Duck, and Old Fellow as they ran to greet me. Puddleduck was nowhere to be seen.
Because the feeds are also frequented by hordes of migrating wild mallards, the domestics tend to get elbowed out of their own meals. I go through a lot more cracked corn during the fall and winter months than in the spring and summer, and I usually have to pour out the corn, squat and wait until my guys are displaced, duck-walk backwards, pour some more, and repeat the process several times to ensure that the domestics all get fed. I was in the middle of that process when I looked up to see Puddleduck walking toward me, moving considerably faster than I'd seen him walk in recent weeks.
For a brief, lazy minute, I discarded the idea of catching him before reluctantly giving in to yet another reminder from that pesky brain of mine. To my amazement, Puddleduck bellied up to the bar a mere foot and a half away from me. When he stuck his right wing out to balance himself, I knew I had him: he was too close, and too clumsy with that wing out, for me to pass up such an easy opportunity. I bided my time for a few seconds, saw my chance, leaned in quickly and grabbed him up. All the other ducks scattered in fear, quacking their disapproval as they fled en masse to the pond. Puddleduck managed to flap his strong wings a few times, but my grip was firm. I returned to the car and put him in the waiting critter carrier.
I cell-phoned the Mitchell's as I pulled out of the parking lot, letting them know the mission had been successful and that I was on my way to their house. My usual feeling of triumph was subdued, though. Grabbing up Pretty Boy always brought a measure of satisfaction in the knowledge that I was doing right by him. Even if the same was true with Puddleduck, I had no close bond with him to savor. I might as well have been transporting a complete stranger.
Regardless of my personal feelings, I nonetheless favored Puddleduck with a running monologue about what lay in store for him. "It's a nice place with a small yard, your own little pond to swim in, a pal to keep you company...Puddleduck, what are you doing? Digging to China?" While my eyes were on the road, I'd heard a taptaptap coming from inside the cage. I'd glanced over to see what looked like Puddleduck trying to dig his way out by pecking his bill repeatedly on the hard plastic underneath him. I remained mystified for another ten minutes, until I pulled him from the carrier and discovered a pile of dry cat kibble scattered about. He hadn't been digging to China at all, he'd been chowing down on cat food!
When I got to the Mitchell's house, it was agreed that Puddleduck should spend some time alone in the garage, getting his bearings. Ducky would be brought in for the night in a few hours, at which time the two ducks would presumably catch up on the good old days spent together at the pond before Ducky's move to his new home. In a couple weeks, I'll take Puddleduck to the vet to try to discover the reason for his leg issue.
Whatever the problem may be, Puddleduck now has a wonderful forever-home with people who will cater to his whims, and spoil him rotten with not one but four ponds from which he can safely bathe, swim, and watch the antics of an impossibly-fat resident squirrel, whom I've privately named Fat Squirrel, as he eats his way into the record books by being the Fattest Known Squirrel In Existence. It's a life most ducks would envy, and I've no doubt that once he gets past the transition phase, Puddleduck will be one happy duck. Ducky sure is.
My visits with Ducky have gotten fewer and farther between, during the last several months. It's not because I don't care, but because life gets in the way, and I have to accomodate not just my own schedule, but Pat Mitchell's, as well. The last couple of times I'd been there, Ducky seemed preoccupied with the minutiae of duck life, and I figured that I was probably disappearing from his memory. He rarely came up close, anymore, or stuck around as long as he used to. I understood the distance, and reluctantly accepted it. What choice did I have, anyway?
But a terrific thing happened today: while a discussion ensued about Puddleduck's immediate future, I called my usual greeting over my shoulder, "Ducky! Hi, pal! How ya doin'?!" To my surprise and pleasure, Ducky climbed out of the pond he'd been swimming in, preened a few feathers so that he'd look presentable, and hurriedly waddled in my direction. I felt bad that I'd forgotten to bring snacks with me.
Indeed, I'd been so fixated on the prospect of those stupid pupil-dilating drops that I forgot everything I usually arm myself with: snacks for Ducky, and, equally important, my camera, for documenting the action. Dammit! I lamented out loud my lack of snacks before joining Pat in the garage. She shut the door so that Puddleduck wouldn't be able to run out into the yard, then I pulled him from the carrier and plonked him on the cement floor. He immediately disappeared under the 1960 Studebaker Lark that would also be spending the winter in the garage. We let him be, and rejoined Pete out in the driveway. To my great gratitude, Pete had ducked inside the house while we were about our task, and returned with a package of saltine crackers, that I might give Ducky a treat after all. Thanks, Pete!
I walked back across the yard, calling to Ducky, and feeling certain that my charmed moments with him earlier were all I was going to get, this visit. He surprised me yet again by waddling back over to me and snacking on the crackers while Fat Squirrel perched in the crotch of a nearby tree, waiting for his own opportunity with the saltines.
The visit at the Mitchell's turned out to be enormously satisfying for several reasons. Discovering that some primal recess of Ducky's brain still contained an apparent recognition of me was deeply pleasing. Ducky and I had never shared a rapport on a level with myself and Pretty Boy, but I had had to take him to the vet once, several years ago, when he'd swallowed a fish hook. He survived the surgery and returned to the pond with an aplomb I didn't know he possessed, and he never seemed to hold the incident against me.
Finally getting Puddleduck's future seen to was equally satisfying. There's no doubt in my mind that if he'd had to suffer another winter on the pond, slipping and sliding on the ice would have done permanent damage to his leg. It would very probably have left him completely helpless out on the ice, as well. That would've required a dangerous rescue attempt, or, in lieu of that, a slow starvation death out there beyond reach. A forever-home with the Mitchells is the best prospect, and a better outcome than most abandoned ducks get.
While this particular story has a happy ending, don't make the mistake of thinking that it's all beer and skittles for the McKinnon's Pond ducks: the remainder of them are still homeless, and trying to make the best of a bad situation out there on the pond. A painful reminder of just how treacherous their existence is can be found in the deaths of Pretty Lady, white Pekin Peepers, and Pretty Boy - all lost in the short span of this past spring. Any of those left could go at any time. Indeed, a predator could be catching one of them right now as you read these words. So, please, THINK TWICE before bringing home a duckling for your children or grandkids: ducks can live over twenty years. Don't get them if you're not prepared to care for them for their entire lifetime.
That's all for now, folks. I want to give a quick shout out to the Gods, who clearly considered and granted the plea I flung at them earlier today to please let me catch Puddleduck! No matter who your god is, I think there's something to be said for the power of prayer. Until next time, keep warm and please be kind to all the critters!
Thanks for stopping by! Judging from the low temperatures at night here in Northwest Ohio, I guess summer's gone for good this year. Rats! I wasn't quite done yet!
I know that I've mentioned white Pekin Puddleduck in previous blog entries, but I don't recall saying much beyond the fact that he'd taken over caring for Girlfriend Duck after Pretty Boy passed away. In fact, Puddleduck was dumped at McKinnon's Pond a few years ago. He was full-grown at the time, and not too fond of humans. I'm thinking that either he wasn't handled much, growing up, or he'd had bad experiences with humans. Whatever the cause, Puddleduck made sure he never got too close to me.
The handy thing about Alpha ducks like Pretty Boy is that they set the tone for the other domestics: because Pretty Boy wasn't afraid to get close to me (even after repeated pickings-up by me when he needed to go to the vet), the other ducks would follow his lead. They may have been nervous, but they clearly came to some understanding, by watching Pretty Boy's example, that I was relatively harmless.
With Pretty Boy gone, the other ducks have backed off to a certain degree. There still seems to be, though, in the recesses of those little duck brains, a semblance of memory of times past - times when the big hulking human could be trusted, because every now and again, they still come within reach. It's not something that can be relied upon to happen at every feed, but it happens often enough.
For the past month or so, I've noticed a problem with Puddleduck's left leg. Puddleduck always walked with a degree of what looked like bow-leggedness, but lately, he's been favoring that left leg. It looked noticeably weaker, and he invariably ended up using his right wing as a ballast at the feeds. And, increasingly, he's been isolating himself from the crowd. Many times, I'd be surrounded by a horde of ducks - wild mallards and domestics alike - with no sign of Puddleduck at all. If I wandered around to the side of the pond over by the highway, I would usually find Puddleduck off by himself, huddled on the grass.
He swam much better than he walked; on dry land, he was the proverbial sitting duck. I worried about him, and fretted over what to do. The times I decided to catch him and take him to the vet, he proved surprisingly agile and managed to evade capture. After discussing my concerns with Pat Mitchell - who, since the untimely death of Chicken, a month or so ago, has been on the look-out for a new companion for Ducky - we agreed that Puddleduck was a suitable candidate to fill Chicken's shoes at the Mitchell's home. Successfully catching him, though, was another matter entirely.
I sent Pat an email earlier this week, telling her that I would be trying to catch Puddleduck on Friday. She responded with a voice mail on my machine, letting me know what time she would be home to receive him. "She's a lot more optimistic than I am," I thought wryly on Thursday night. From past experience, I can tell you that things rarely go as planned where the ducks are concerned. Even when Pretty Boy was still alive, there were always those days when - for whatever reason - he remained out of reach during the entire feed. Puddleduck, I was sure, would be no different.
My skepticism was coupled with a healthy dose of laziness: lets face it, anything outside your usual routine is a hassle, and the ducks are no exception. Sometimes, I just want things to be easy, and wrestling with an unwilling duck is never easy. My brain overcame my lethargy, though, when it reminded me, "There's no way he can survive on the pond this winter! Catch him now while you still can!" Sighing deeply as I drove to the pond, I resigned myself to the task.
It didn't help that I had an appointment with the eye doctor first. It was my annual visit, complete with the pupil-dilating drops that made being anywhere near a light source quite painful for several hours after the exam. And the pond, reflecting the bright sunshine of a beautiful late-fall day, was one hell of a light source! Squinting as I walked along the side of the pond, I could make out the faint shapes of Mama, Freckle Duck, and Old Fellow as they ran to greet me. Puddleduck was nowhere to be seen.
Because the feeds are also frequented by hordes of migrating wild mallards, the domestics tend to get elbowed out of their own meals. I go through a lot more cracked corn during the fall and winter months than in the spring and summer, and I usually have to pour out the corn, squat and wait until my guys are displaced, duck-walk backwards, pour some more, and repeat the process several times to ensure that the domestics all get fed. I was in the middle of that process when I looked up to see Puddleduck walking toward me, moving considerably faster than I'd seen him walk in recent weeks.
For a brief, lazy minute, I discarded the idea of catching him before reluctantly giving in to yet another reminder from that pesky brain of mine. To my amazement, Puddleduck bellied up to the bar a mere foot and a half away from me. When he stuck his right wing out to balance himself, I knew I had him: he was too close, and too clumsy with that wing out, for me to pass up such an easy opportunity. I bided my time for a few seconds, saw my chance, leaned in quickly and grabbed him up. All the other ducks scattered in fear, quacking their disapproval as they fled en masse to the pond. Puddleduck managed to flap his strong wings a few times, but my grip was firm. I returned to the car and put him in the waiting critter carrier.
I cell-phoned the Mitchell's as I pulled out of the parking lot, letting them know the mission had been successful and that I was on my way to their house. My usual feeling of triumph was subdued, though. Grabbing up Pretty Boy always brought a measure of satisfaction in the knowledge that I was doing right by him. Even if the same was true with Puddleduck, I had no close bond with him to savor. I might as well have been transporting a complete stranger.
Regardless of my personal feelings, I nonetheless favored Puddleduck with a running monologue about what lay in store for him. "It's a nice place with a small yard, your own little pond to swim in, a pal to keep you company...Puddleduck, what are you doing? Digging to China?" While my eyes were on the road, I'd heard a taptaptap coming from inside the cage. I'd glanced over to see what looked like Puddleduck trying to dig his way out by pecking his bill repeatedly on the hard plastic underneath him. I remained mystified for another ten minutes, until I pulled him from the carrier and discovered a pile of dry cat kibble scattered about. He hadn't been digging to China at all, he'd been chowing down on cat food!
When I got to the Mitchell's house, it was agreed that Puddleduck should spend some time alone in the garage, getting his bearings. Ducky would be brought in for the night in a few hours, at which time the two ducks would presumably catch up on the good old days spent together at the pond before Ducky's move to his new home. In a couple weeks, I'll take Puddleduck to the vet to try to discover the reason for his leg issue.
Whatever the problem may be, Puddleduck now has a wonderful forever-home with people who will cater to his whims, and spoil him rotten with not one but four ponds from which he can safely bathe, swim, and watch the antics of an impossibly-fat resident squirrel, whom I've privately named Fat Squirrel, as he eats his way into the record books by being the Fattest Known Squirrel In Existence. It's a life most ducks would envy, and I've no doubt that once he gets past the transition phase, Puddleduck will be one happy duck. Ducky sure is.
My visits with Ducky have gotten fewer and farther between, during the last several months. It's not because I don't care, but because life gets in the way, and I have to accomodate not just my own schedule, but Pat Mitchell's, as well. The last couple of times I'd been there, Ducky seemed preoccupied with the minutiae of duck life, and I figured that I was probably disappearing from his memory. He rarely came up close, anymore, or stuck around as long as he used to. I understood the distance, and reluctantly accepted it. What choice did I have, anyway?
But a terrific thing happened today: while a discussion ensued about Puddleduck's immediate future, I called my usual greeting over my shoulder, "Ducky! Hi, pal! How ya doin'?!" To my surprise and pleasure, Ducky climbed out of the pond he'd been swimming in, preened a few feathers so that he'd look presentable, and hurriedly waddled in my direction. I felt bad that I'd forgotten to bring snacks with me.
Indeed, I'd been so fixated on the prospect of those stupid pupil-dilating drops that I forgot everything I usually arm myself with: snacks for Ducky, and, equally important, my camera, for documenting the action. Dammit! I lamented out loud my lack of snacks before joining Pat in the garage. She shut the door so that Puddleduck wouldn't be able to run out into the yard, then I pulled him from the carrier and plonked him on the cement floor. He immediately disappeared under the 1960 Studebaker Lark that would also be spending the winter in the garage. We let him be, and rejoined Pete out in the driveway. To my great gratitude, Pete had ducked inside the house while we were about our task, and returned with a package of saltine crackers, that I might give Ducky a treat after all. Thanks, Pete!
I walked back across the yard, calling to Ducky, and feeling certain that my charmed moments with him earlier were all I was going to get, this visit. He surprised me yet again by waddling back over to me and snacking on the crackers while Fat Squirrel perched in the crotch of a nearby tree, waiting for his own opportunity with the saltines.
The visit at the Mitchell's turned out to be enormously satisfying for several reasons. Discovering that some primal recess of Ducky's brain still contained an apparent recognition of me was deeply pleasing. Ducky and I had never shared a rapport on a level with myself and Pretty Boy, but I had had to take him to the vet once, several years ago, when he'd swallowed a fish hook. He survived the surgery and returned to the pond with an aplomb I didn't know he possessed, and he never seemed to hold the incident against me.
Finally getting Puddleduck's future seen to was equally satisfying. There's no doubt in my mind that if he'd had to suffer another winter on the pond, slipping and sliding on the ice would have done permanent damage to his leg. It would very probably have left him completely helpless out on the ice, as well. That would've required a dangerous rescue attempt, or, in lieu of that, a slow starvation death out there beyond reach. A forever-home with the Mitchells is the best prospect, and a better outcome than most abandoned ducks get.
While this particular story has a happy ending, don't make the mistake of thinking that it's all beer and skittles for the McKinnon's Pond ducks: the remainder of them are still homeless, and trying to make the best of a bad situation out there on the pond. A painful reminder of just how treacherous their existence is can be found in the deaths of Pretty Lady, white Pekin Peepers, and Pretty Boy - all lost in the short span of this past spring. Any of those left could go at any time. Indeed, a predator could be catching one of them right now as you read these words. So, please, THINK TWICE before bringing home a duckling for your children or grandkids: ducks can live over twenty years. Don't get them if you're not prepared to care for them for their entire lifetime.
That's all for now, folks. I want to give a quick shout out to the Gods, who clearly considered and granted the plea I flung at them earlier today to please let me catch Puddleduck! No matter who your god is, I think there's something to be said for the power of prayer. Until next time, keep warm and please be kind to all the critters!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
A Difference of Opinion
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're enjoying some nice fall weather, just like the ducks and I are here in Whoville. A curious thing happened the other day, and I've been doing a lot of thinking about how to tell you about it. I guess the best way is just to jump right in, so here goes.
I was talking with fiancee John recently, teasing him about one of his idiosyncracies. I can't recall which one because he has too many to keep track of! It probably had to do with his propensity for really bad puns. I keep telling him that they're not all meant to come out of his mouth, but that never stops him! Anyway, the subject was endearing quirks, and I made the mistake of asking what he thought mine were. Between you and me, I didn't realize I had any quirks - or at least any that John was aware of! Turns out he had a list of them, and at the top of the list was this: that I talk to my cats, and believe that they talk back.
Considering that John has five indoor cats that he dearly loves, this comment came as quite a surprise. Given that John and I both have high IQ's, I just assumed that we were on the same animal-communication wavelength. I mean, of COURSE they talk: they meow, hiss, growl, and purr, just to name a few. I pointed this out to John, but it didn't seem to register.
"Well," I said, "other cats understand what they're saying, right?"
"Yeah...," he answered cautiously.
"So the cats ARE talking, right?"
"Yeah...," he still wasn't convinced.
"Just because YOU don't understand them doesn't mean they're not talking, does it?"
At which point he gave me that indulgent look that I really hate getting from people. It's the same look you give your child when they do something dumb but funny.
I suppose that now is as good a time as any to explain about the critters talking. My cats talk the most (more so, say, than the ducks). That's natural: I live with them, we interact all day long, and they have things on their minds that they want me to know about. Junebug is the most talkative, and her thoughts usually center around asking me to refresh her bowl of kibble, or give her snack treats. We don't spend all day talking to one another; it's simply a matter of Junebug trying to make a point, and me translating that point into my own language of human English.
One of my favorite things that Junebug says is this: when I give her a catnip toy, she'll lie on the floor and lick the thing soggy. And she'll say, "I'll lick all the smell off, Kelly!" Which is, of course, exactly what she's doing when she licks the thing soggy. Makes sense to Junebug. Makes sense to me.
My six-year old orange tabby, Spanky, who is so emotionally stunted that he thinks he's still a small kitten, often walks around the house wailing unhappily. What I hear him saying is, "Me!," though I have no idea what, exactly, he's talking about. I just know that he's unhappy and he wants me to know about it.
The problem with this whole subject of animals talking is that I worry about being mistaken for one of those eccentric cat ladies whose animals all speak in flowery prose, which is not the case at all! I've never once claimed that any animal spoke the English language to me, nor do their mouths move to form words. The easiest way to describe what I experience is that it's like standing in the middle of a stream and letting the critter-waters flow around me. I get the essence of communication, not an actual thought or word.
My thinking is that if you spend enough time interacting with your pets, you're bound to become a pet whisperer to some degree, if for no other reason than you love your pet and enjoy your bond with it. That's basically how it is for me: I spend such a large amount of time with my cats and ducks that I seem to have an inside track on what they're thinking about.
Meanwhile, I've learned the hard way that my high IQ fiancee is a lot more narrow-minded than I realized. How disappointing! And as a fellow Trekkie, he should know better!
The subject of animal communication put me in mind of some really priceless movie dialog, and in the interest of accurate reporting, I sat down this afternoon and popped the video in the VCR so that I could get the phrasing just right. The things I do for the sake of my blog! In any case, it goes like this:
The crew of the Enterprise (Star Trek IV - The Voyage Home) become aware of a powerful space probe that's rendering star ships inoperable. No one knows where the probe came from or how to communicate with it. Dr. McCoy makes a sarcastic remark about the probe's intention of saying "'hi, there,' to the people of the earth." Mr. Spock gives him a pained look and says, "There are other forms of intelligence on earth, Doctor. Only human arrogance would assume the message MUST be meant for man."
Let me repeat that in all caps for the benefit of my myopic fiancee:
THERE ARE OTHER FORMS OF INTELLIGENCE ON EARTH, DOCTOR. ONLY HUMAN ARROGANCE WOULD ASSUME THE MESSAGE MUST BE MEANT FOR MAN.
There's no doubt that animals do, in fact, communicate - and make themselves clearly understood - with each other. Even John doesn't dispute that. Why he disputes the idea of one specie trying to connect with another, though, is unclear to me. Maybe he's got scary things going on in his head that he doesn't want anyone else knowing about. Maybe he's worried that his cats would rat him out! Who can say?
As for all of you critter-lovers out there, I know that you understand exactly what I'm talking about: there are all kinds of different species living among each other on this planet - birds and mammals, fins and feathers, and tail-less homo sapiens, and it's only natural that we're going to try to talk to each other. I'm starting to see, though, that talking might not really be the issue after all; perhaps LISTENING is.
Do you ever get the feeling that we're not doing enough of it?
Here's a challenge for you: the next time you're at your local park, walk around with your ears open and really listen to the natural world. Can you hear the birds? The ducks? The chipmunks? I dare you to take a walk around your neighborhood and leave your ear buds at home! I dare you to say hi to the people that you pass. I double-dare you to smile at them! Lie down on the floor with your dog or cat and relate to them on their level. Brake for squirrels! You never know - in the next life, you might BE a squirrel!
That's all for now, folks. Until next time, I'm going to be working on expanding John's mind, and, as always, please be kind to all the critters!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're enjoying some nice fall weather, just like the ducks and I are here in Whoville. A curious thing happened the other day, and I've been doing a lot of thinking about how to tell you about it. I guess the best way is just to jump right in, so here goes.
I was talking with fiancee John recently, teasing him about one of his idiosyncracies. I can't recall which one because he has too many to keep track of! It probably had to do with his propensity for really bad puns. I keep telling him that they're not all meant to come out of his mouth, but that never stops him! Anyway, the subject was endearing quirks, and I made the mistake of asking what he thought mine were. Between you and me, I didn't realize I had any quirks - or at least any that John was aware of! Turns out he had a list of them, and at the top of the list was this: that I talk to my cats, and believe that they talk back.
Considering that John has five indoor cats that he dearly loves, this comment came as quite a surprise. Given that John and I both have high IQ's, I just assumed that we were on the same animal-communication wavelength. I mean, of COURSE they talk: they meow, hiss, growl, and purr, just to name a few. I pointed this out to John, but it didn't seem to register.
"Well," I said, "other cats understand what they're saying, right?"
"Yeah...," he answered cautiously.
"So the cats ARE talking, right?"
"Yeah...," he still wasn't convinced.
"Just because YOU don't understand them doesn't mean they're not talking, does it?"
At which point he gave me that indulgent look that I really hate getting from people. It's the same look you give your child when they do something dumb but funny.
I suppose that now is as good a time as any to explain about the critters talking. My cats talk the most (more so, say, than the ducks). That's natural: I live with them, we interact all day long, and they have things on their minds that they want me to know about. Junebug is the most talkative, and her thoughts usually center around asking me to refresh her bowl of kibble, or give her snack treats. We don't spend all day talking to one another; it's simply a matter of Junebug trying to make a point, and me translating that point into my own language of human English.
One of my favorite things that Junebug says is this: when I give her a catnip toy, she'll lie on the floor and lick the thing soggy. And she'll say, "I'll lick all the smell off, Kelly!" Which is, of course, exactly what she's doing when she licks the thing soggy. Makes sense to Junebug. Makes sense to me.
My six-year old orange tabby, Spanky, who is so emotionally stunted that he thinks he's still a small kitten, often walks around the house wailing unhappily. What I hear him saying is, "Me!," though I have no idea what, exactly, he's talking about. I just know that he's unhappy and he wants me to know about it.
The problem with this whole subject of animals talking is that I worry about being mistaken for one of those eccentric cat ladies whose animals all speak in flowery prose, which is not the case at all! I've never once claimed that any animal spoke the English language to me, nor do their mouths move to form words. The easiest way to describe what I experience is that it's like standing in the middle of a stream and letting the critter-waters flow around me. I get the essence of communication, not an actual thought or word.
My thinking is that if you spend enough time interacting with your pets, you're bound to become a pet whisperer to some degree, if for no other reason than you love your pet and enjoy your bond with it. That's basically how it is for me: I spend such a large amount of time with my cats and ducks that I seem to have an inside track on what they're thinking about.
Meanwhile, I've learned the hard way that my high IQ fiancee is a lot more narrow-minded than I realized. How disappointing! And as a fellow Trekkie, he should know better!
The subject of animal communication put me in mind of some really priceless movie dialog, and in the interest of accurate reporting, I sat down this afternoon and popped the video in the VCR so that I could get the phrasing just right. The things I do for the sake of my blog! In any case, it goes like this:
The crew of the Enterprise (Star Trek IV - The Voyage Home) become aware of a powerful space probe that's rendering star ships inoperable. No one knows where the probe came from or how to communicate with it. Dr. McCoy makes a sarcastic remark about the probe's intention of saying "'hi, there,' to the people of the earth." Mr. Spock gives him a pained look and says, "There are other forms of intelligence on earth, Doctor. Only human arrogance would assume the message MUST be meant for man."
Let me repeat that in all caps for the benefit of my myopic fiancee:
THERE ARE OTHER FORMS OF INTELLIGENCE ON EARTH, DOCTOR. ONLY HUMAN ARROGANCE WOULD ASSUME THE MESSAGE MUST BE MEANT FOR MAN.
There's no doubt that animals do, in fact, communicate - and make themselves clearly understood - with each other. Even John doesn't dispute that. Why he disputes the idea of one specie trying to connect with another, though, is unclear to me. Maybe he's got scary things going on in his head that he doesn't want anyone else knowing about. Maybe he's worried that his cats would rat him out! Who can say?
As for all of you critter-lovers out there, I know that you understand exactly what I'm talking about: there are all kinds of different species living among each other on this planet - birds and mammals, fins and feathers, and tail-less homo sapiens, and it's only natural that we're going to try to talk to each other. I'm starting to see, though, that talking might not really be the issue after all; perhaps LISTENING is.
Do you ever get the feeling that we're not doing enough of it?
Here's a challenge for you: the next time you're at your local park, walk around with your ears open and really listen to the natural world. Can you hear the birds? The ducks? The chipmunks? I dare you to take a walk around your neighborhood and leave your ear buds at home! I dare you to say hi to the people that you pass. I double-dare you to smile at them! Lie down on the floor with your dog or cat and relate to them on their level. Brake for squirrels! You never know - in the next life, you might BE a squirrel!
That's all for now, folks. Until next time, I'm going to be working on expanding John's mind, and, as always, please be kind to all the critters!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Too Close For Comfort
Hi Folks!
Welcome back! I sure hope it's not raining where you are because that's all we've been getting lately here in Whoville! It's so dismal and dreary out there that boyfriend John coined his own word: "drismal," which perfectly describes the weather outside and the feeling inside! I'll sure be glad when the sun comes out again!
I had a thing happen the other day that really threw me off kilter. I was out at the pond feeding my guys as usual, when I noticed that new favorite duck Ethel was nowhere to be found. Neither was Big Boyfriend Duck. I called and called, and stuck around longer than usual, but never saw hide nor hair of them. Heck, every wild mallard within a ten-mile radius showed up, but not Ethel. This was very unusual: as I've said before, Ethel is one greedy duck! She stays at the feeds the longest, and eats the most, and her presence is such a given that on the rare occasion that she doesn't make an appearance, it's all the more noticeable.
She hadn't shown up for the previous feed, either. Now I was worried. My concern was compounded by the sudden discovery of a duck carcass. The poor corpse had been picked over so well that there was literally nothing left but bones and feathers. The head was gone - rendering identification impossible because the way I tell Ethel apart from other Rouen females is by the black stripes across her face - and so was just about everything else. No innards, no skin, no nothing. I found one lone webbed foot lying a few feet away. There wasn't even enough duck left to be grossed out about.
Having no idea whose corpse it was, I was forced to conclude from the missing Ethel that the body must be hers. Now I was really bummed. So bummed that I went right from concerned to numb. This was just too much: first Pretty Boy and his sister, Pretty Lady, then Peepers, and never mind the human losses John and I have incurred this year, or the death of his beloved cat, Picasso. This has been the suckiest year on record for sheer number of loved ones lost. I just couldn't handle the idea of losing Ethel, too.
So I tried not to think about it. I did make a return trip to the pond the very next day to recover what was left of that poor duck. John and I will give the remains a proper burial sometime soon. I talked to Pat Mitchell - who suffered her own loss recently with the untimely death of Ducky's companion, Chicken. Between you and I, it's no great loss - he was one mean bird! Even so, Pat was deeply upset about it, and was no less so when I told her about Ethel. She tried to convince me that she'd seen Ethel earlier that day, but I remained skeptical, mainly because I don't think she has a clear idea of what Ethel looks like.
The few times I let myself think about things, what I thought about most was that I don't have a close relationship with any of the remaining domestics at the pond. I entertained the idea of quitting - giving up feeding the rest and letting someone else take over the job. Hell, I put in sixty miles a week, driving to and from the pond; I could surely save a little wear and tear on the old Honda by not making the drive anymore. And I could surely save a little gas in the tank, as well. But my sense of obligation to those abandoned creatures was stronger than my brief desire to quit, so back to the pond I went yesterday for our regularly scheduled feed.
You can imagine the surprise and joy I felt, then, when good old Ethel - trailed, as usual, by Big Boyfriend Duck - crested the hill and joined the crowed. "Ethel!" I called out delightedly, "where ya been, you silly girl?!" She made no reply, but simply tucked into the corn as usual. Life was good again!
I was so relieved that I actually tried to send a text message to John as I drove away. This was, of course, courting disaster, and I strongly recommend that every person on the planet put away their cell phone/blackberry/whatever once they take a seat behind the wheel. As for me, I pulled off the road and then let John know that all was well at the pond.
While I'm glad to have things back to normal, this experience has served as yet another painful reminder of the fragility of life. I've been spoiled for so many years by a false sense of security at the pond: the longer those ducks live, the longer I expect them to live. Losing so much as one of them really throws off my plans for duck immortality. Pretty Boy was never supposed to die, nor Peeps, or any of the others. We were all simply going to live on indefinitely. Naive, I know, but cheating death does that to you, it makes you think you can go on doing it forever. But then one day, reality smacks you in the face and the loss is that much harder to live with.
So yet again, I urge you all to spend extra quality time with your loved ones - humans and otherwise. You just never know when you'll run out of time, and once they're gone, they're gone forever. That's all for now, folks. Thanks again for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome back! I sure hope it's not raining where you are because that's all we've been getting lately here in Whoville! It's so dismal and dreary out there that boyfriend John coined his own word: "drismal," which perfectly describes the weather outside and the feeling inside! I'll sure be glad when the sun comes out again!
I had a thing happen the other day that really threw me off kilter. I was out at the pond feeding my guys as usual, when I noticed that new favorite duck Ethel was nowhere to be found. Neither was Big Boyfriend Duck. I called and called, and stuck around longer than usual, but never saw hide nor hair of them. Heck, every wild mallard within a ten-mile radius showed up, but not Ethel. This was very unusual: as I've said before, Ethel is one greedy duck! She stays at the feeds the longest, and eats the most, and her presence is such a given that on the rare occasion that she doesn't make an appearance, it's all the more noticeable.
She hadn't shown up for the previous feed, either. Now I was worried. My concern was compounded by the sudden discovery of a duck carcass. The poor corpse had been picked over so well that there was literally nothing left but bones and feathers. The head was gone - rendering identification impossible because the way I tell Ethel apart from other Rouen females is by the black stripes across her face - and so was just about everything else. No innards, no skin, no nothing. I found one lone webbed foot lying a few feet away. There wasn't even enough duck left to be grossed out about.
Having no idea whose corpse it was, I was forced to conclude from the missing Ethel that the body must be hers. Now I was really bummed. So bummed that I went right from concerned to numb. This was just too much: first Pretty Boy and his sister, Pretty Lady, then Peepers, and never mind the human losses John and I have incurred this year, or the death of his beloved cat, Picasso. This has been the suckiest year on record for sheer number of loved ones lost. I just couldn't handle the idea of losing Ethel, too.
So I tried not to think about it. I did make a return trip to the pond the very next day to recover what was left of that poor duck. John and I will give the remains a proper burial sometime soon. I talked to Pat Mitchell - who suffered her own loss recently with the untimely death of Ducky's companion, Chicken. Between you and I, it's no great loss - he was one mean bird! Even so, Pat was deeply upset about it, and was no less so when I told her about Ethel. She tried to convince me that she'd seen Ethel earlier that day, but I remained skeptical, mainly because I don't think she has a clear idea of what Ethel looks like.
The few times I let myself think about things, what I thought about most was that I don't have a close relationship with any of the remaining domestics at the pond. I entertained the idea of quitting - giving up feeding the rest and letting someone else take over the job. Hell, I put in sixty miles a week, driving to and from the pond; I could surely save a little wear and tear on the old Honda by not making the drive anymore. And I could surely save a little gas in the tank, as well. But my sense of obligation to those abandoned creatures was stronger than my brief desire to quit, so back to the pond I went yesterday for our regularly scheduled feed.
You can imagine the surprise and joy I felt, then, when good old Ethel - trailed, as usual, by Big Boyfriend Duck - crested the hill and joined the crowed. "Ethel!" I called out delightedly, "where ya been, you silly girl?!" She made no reply, but simply tucked into the corn as usual. Life was good again!
I was so relieved that I actually tried to send a text message to John as I drove away. This was, of course, courting disaster, and I strongly recommend that every person on the planet put away their cell phone/blackberry/whatever once they take a seat behind the wheel. As for me, I pulled off the road and then let John know that all was well at the pond.
While I'm glad to have things back to normal, this experience has served as yet another painful reminder of the fragility of life. I've been spoiled for so many years by a false sense of security at the pond: the longer those ducks live, the longer I expect them to live. Losing so much as one of them really throws off my plans for duck immortality. Pretty Boy was never supposed to die, nor Peeps, or any of the others. We were all simply going to live on indefinitely. Naive, I know, but cheating death does that to you, it makes you think you can go on doing it forever. But then one day, reality smacks you in the face and the loss is that much harder to live with.
So yet again, I urge you all to spend extra quality time with your loved ones - humans and otherwise. You just never know when you'll run out of time, and once they're gone, they're gone forever. That's all for now, folks. Thanks again for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Critter Thoughts
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you all had a great summer!
Golly, but it's been a while since I blogged last! From all that silence, you'd think that nothing noteworthy has happened, but that's not really the case. Mostly, I've been trying to figure out how to tell you the things I've been thinking about, and sometimes, it takes longer than others to make sense of the jumble in my head.
One of the main things on my mind has been Pretty Boy Duck. You may remember that I told you, when he died back in March, that one fine spring day, I would scatter his ashes at the pond he had spent his life on. Well, I haven't done it. I thought about it a few times, but just couldn't bear to part with any of the ashes. They remain in the decorative tin the crematorium put them in, and the tin remains on my kitchen table, where it's sat for all these months since. I'm over the worst of my grief, but there are still many days when I have painful twinges of sorrow at his loss.
Nothing reminds me of that loss more than my thrice-weekly visits to McKinnon's Pond to feed the other ducks. What a huge presence Pretty Boy took with him when he died! There don't seem to be any other domestic ducks down there who want his old job. I've watched all summer, and haven't yet detected so much as one duck taking a leadership position within the flock. It's damned disappointing.
My friend Bob Tarte - author of "Enslaved by Ducks" - thinks it's possible that there is, in fact, a new leader at the pond who is perhaps more subtle than Pretty Boy was. I suppose it could happen; Pretty Boy was anything but subtle, after all! What I keep looking for, and not seeing, is a strong personality that isn't afraid of getting close to me, one that the entire flock recognizes and responds to: in Pretty Boy's day, all the domestics gathered for the feeds and everyone seemed to know their place. Now, the flock is fragmented into three or four separate cliques who rarely share the same space at the pond, let alone the food. In other words, there is no longer a unifying duck presence.
One of the hard truths I've learned from loving and losing critter friends is that they - like we humans - are all unique individuals with unique personalities. The problem grieving humans run into when they lose an animal friend is when they adopt another and find that the new one is in no way like the old one. I've run up against this myself - even though I knew better! - and had to swallow that bitter pill of disappointment and find the patience required to let a new personality shine in its' own light. Eventually, the joy of the new personality helps soften the blow of losing the old one, but in the case of the McKinnon's Pond ducks, I'm still waiting.
It's entirely possible that my new special duck will be a girl. I find now that at all the feeds, Ethel is the duck I most look forward to seeing. Why? Because she's such a cheerful and trusting soul, always happy to see me, and never seems to mind when I touch her. She hangs around the longest, eats the most, and her enthusiasm for a good bag of corn never seems to dim! Every single time I go to the pond, I can expect to sit down on the ground and visit with her while she eats. None of the other domestics stick around long enough for that. They eat quickly, then return to the pond and get on with their day.
I'll keep watching to see if any alpha ducks turn up at the pond. In the meantime, I'll treasure my friendship with Ethel. Not everyone is lucky enough to know such a wonderful character as her, so I consider myself very fortunate indeed. Those three visits are a highlight of my week, and I always make sure that I have enough time to stay as long as I want to.
For those of you who think ducks are boring, I say this: you have no idea what you're missing! While wild mallards can be dull creatures (and why not? They're not meant to interact with humans), domestic ducks are just the opposite: gregarious and outgoing, intelligent and funny, they'll make you laugh while they're alive, and they'll break your heart when they die. Was knowing Pretty Boy worth the pain of losing him? You betcha! And I'm looking forward to seeing him again in the next life.
In the meantime, I've been searching for a way to honor his life. I know I mentioned previously that to honor some great cats I've known and lost, I had my favorite jeweler create small gold baubles to hold a pinch of their ashes and to wear on a chain around my neck. I originally planned to do this with Pretty Boy, but the price of gold has gone through the roof, rendering my idea unaffordable. I did, however, find a good Plan B: I met an animal-loving artist on Facebook who creates beautiful fused-glass pendants. What this is is powdered glass, in a wide variety of colors. The artist arranges the colored powders just so, then fires the piece in a kiln. The heat melts the glass powders and fuses them permanently into place.
It should be noted that the artist, Heidi Mason, does all this with one eye. I can't tell you why that is because I don't know what happened to her other eye. Perhaps I'll ask her and get back to you. In any case, you can see and purchase her stunningly beautiful creations at www.redshoecreations.com. Tell her Kelly Meister sent you. When she's finished mine - sometime in early November, I should think, when she returns from her road trip - I'll be sure to post a picture of it so that you can see how great her work is.
That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters, and be sure to cherish the ones you share your life with: you never know how short your time with them will be!
Author's note: I've since learned that fused glass artist Heidi Mason suffered originally from what she described as a "macular pucker"- which surgeons were able to fix - but then the retina in that same eye detached. Four surgeries later, the retina refuses to remain attached, and Heidi tells me that she now sees only light and dark shapes with that eye. And still she manages to create beautiful one-of-a-kind pins and pendants! Way to overcome, Heidi!
For those of you interested in learning more about fused glass art, here's Heidi in her own words, describing the process by which she creates her beautiful pieces:
In short: All glass will melt at the right temperature in a kiln. COE 90 glass (and there is COE 96) all melts at the same temp. So you can fuse (melt) different colors of glass together, without cracking. Slumping is melting glass in a kiln, but melted in a mold. So basically what I am doing is cutting a shape out of the glass. Painting a design with glass paint. I then fuse, or melt the paint into the glass, and fuse (melt) different pieces of glass in my kiln. Cold fusing (a special glue) is to glue two pieces of glass together before it's put in the kiln. The special glue melts away in the heat. At 800 degrees I put in a plug to restrict the air going in the kiln. Red paints like to have oxygen and are brighter if I let it have oxygen up to 800 degrees). I program my kiln to the time and temperature and how long I want the temperature to hold at different stages. The kiln slowly rises in temperature (say to 1,480 degrees). I determine how long I want it at that temp. then the kiln will slowly cool down. Glass Frit is crushed glass, that is sifted into powder. Fine, medium or coarse. I like to use glass frit, which I make myself. However it can be bought. Cathedral glass is glass that you can see through. Opal glass is glass that is solid. Glass also can be bought in very thin sheets, which works well for jewelry. I hope this answers your question...It would take pages to go into all the kinds of glass paint, and kinds of glass. But this is the basic way I make my pendants.
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you all had a great summer!
Golly, but it's been a while since I blogged last! From all that silence, you'd think that nothing noteworthy has happened, but that's not really the case. Mostly, I've been trying to figure out how to tell you the things I've been thinking about, and sometimes, it takes longer than others to make sense of the jumble in my head.
One of the main things on my mind has been Pretty Boy Duck. You may remember that I told you, when he died back in March, that one fine spring day, I would scatter his ashes at the pond he had spent his life on. Well, I haven't done it. I thought about it a few times, but just couldn't bear to part with any of the ashes. They remain in the decorative tin the crematorium put them in, and the tin remains on my kitchen table, where it's sat for all these months since. I'm over the worst of my grief, but there are still many days when I have painful twinges of sorrow at his loss.
Nothing reminds me of that loss more than my thrice-weekly visits to McKinnon's Pond to feed the other ducks. What a huge presence Pretty Boy took with him when he died! There don't seem to be any other domestic ducks down there who want his old job. I've watched all summer, and haven't yet detected so much as one duck taking a leadership position within the flock. It's damned disappointing.
My friend Bob Tarte - author of "Enslaved by Ducks" - thinks it's possible that there is, in fact, a new leader at the pond who is perhaps more subtle than Pretty Boy was. I suppose it could happen; Pretty Boy was anything but subtle, after all! What I keep looking for, and not seeing, is a strong personality that isn't afraid of getting close to me, one that the entire flock recognizes and responds to: in Pretty Boy's day, all the domestics gathered for the feeds and everyone seemed to know their place. Now, the flock is fragmented into three or four separate cliques who rarely share the same space at the pond, let alone the food. In other words, there is no longer a unifying duck presence.
One of the hard truths I've learned from loving and losing critter friends is that they - like we humans - are all unique individuals with unique personalities. The problem grieving humans run into when they lose an animal friend is when they adopt another and find that the new one is in no way like the old one. I've run up against this myself - even though I knew better! - and had to swallow that bitter pill of disappointment and find the patience required to let a new personality shine in its' own light. Eventually, the joy of the new personality helps soften the blow of losing the old one, but in the case of the McKinnon's Pond ducks, I'm still waiting.
It's entirely possible that my new special duck will be a girl. I find now that at all the feeds, Ethel is the duck I most look forward to seeing. Why? Because she's such a cheerful and trusting soul, always happy to see me, and never seems to mind when I touch her. She hangs around the longest, eats the most, and her enthusiasm for a good bag of corn never seems to dim! Every single time I go to the pond, I can expect to sit down on the ground and visit with her while she eats. None of the other domestics stick around long enough for that. They eat quickly, then return to the pond and get on with their day.
I'll keep watching to see if any alpha ducks turn up at the pond. In the meantime, I'll treasure my friendship with Ethel. Not everyone is lucky enough to know such a wonderful character as her, so I consider myself very fortunate indeed. Those three visits are a highlight of my week, and I always make sure that I have enough time to stay as long as I want to.
For those of you who think ducks are boring, I say this: you have no idea what you're missing! While wild mallards can be dull creatures (and why not? They're not meant to interact with humans), domestic ducks are just the opposite: gregarious and outgoing, intelligent and funny, they'll make you laugh while they're alive, and they'll break your heart when they die. Was knowing Pretty Boy worth the pain of losing him? You betcha! And I'm looking forward to seeing him again in the next life.
In the meantime, I've been searching for a way to honor his life. I know I mentioned previously that to honor some great cats I've known and lost, I had my favorite jeweler create small gold baubles to hold a pinch of their ashes and to wear on a chain around my neck. I originally planned to do this with Pretty Boy, but the price of gold has gone through the roof, rendering my idea unaffordable. I did, however, find a good Plan B: I met an animal-loving artist on Facebook who creates beautiful fused-glass pendants. What this is is powdered glass, in a wide variety of colors. The artist arranges the colored powders just so, then fires the piece in a kiln. The heat melts the glass powders and fuses them permanently into place.
It should be noted that the artist, Heidi Mason, does all this with one eye. I can't tell you why that is because I don't know what happened to her other eye. Perhaps I'll ask her and get back to you. In any case, you can see and purchase her stunningly beautiful creations at www.redshoecreations.com. Tell her Kelly Meister sent you. When she's finished mine - sometime in early November, I should think, when she returns from her road trip - I'll be sure to post a picture of it so that you can see how great her work is.
That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters, and be sure to cherish the ones you share your life with: you never know how short your time with them will be!
Author's note: I've since learned that fused glass artist Heidi Mason suffered originally from what she described as a "macular pucker"- which surgeons were able to fix - but then the retina in that same eye detached. Four surgeries later, the retina refuses to remain attached, and Heidi tells me that she now sees only light and dark shapes with that eye. And still she manages to create beautiful one-of-a-kind pins and pendants! Way to overcome, Heidi!
For those of you interested in learning more about fused glass art, here's Heidi in her own words, describing the process by which she creates her beautiful pieces:
In short: All glass will melt at the right temperature in a kiln. COE 90 glass (and there is COE 96) all melts at the same temp. So you can fuse (melt) different colors of glass together, without cracking. Slumping is melting glass in a kiln, but melted in a mold. So basically what I am doing is cutting a shape out of the glass. Painting a design with glass paint. I then fuse, or melt the paint into the glass, and fuse (melt) different pieces of glass in my kiln. Cold fusing (a special glue) is to glue two pieces of glass together before it's put in the kiln. The special glue melts away in the heat. At 800 degrees I put in a plug to restrict the air going in the kiln. Red paints like to have oxygen and are brighter if I let it have oxygen up to 800 degrees). I program my kiln to the time and temperature and how long I want the temperature to hold at different stages. The kiln slowly rises in temperature (say to 1,480 degrees). I determine how long I want it at that temp. then the kiln will slowly cool down. Glass Frit is crushed glass, that is sifted into powder. Fine, medium or coarse. I like to use glass frit, which I make myself. However it can be bought. Cathedral glass is glass that you can see through. Opal glass is glass that is solid. Glass also can be bought in very thin sheets, which works well for jewelry. I hope this answers your question...It would take pages to go into all the kinds of glass paint, and kinds of glass. But this is the basic way I make my pendants.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Chipmuks!
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're having a great summer.
As you may have noticed, I misspelled the word "chipmunks" in the title. I did that on purpose. My orange tabby, Spanky, calls them "chipmuks." It doesn't matter to me what he calls them, and I don't think Spanky's much of a speller anyway. I just know that he and I both like the little critters.
Before I moved into my current house, I rented one on an old estate. I loved that place! It had quirky features to it, and the sort of character that new houses just don't have. The whole south-facing side of the house had huge windows, with these big wide sills that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever other than to provide my cats with a comfortable spot for bird-watching.
There was a side door on the house that led nowhere, other than the vast expanse of the estate itself. It's not like you'd use that door to take out the garbage, or go to your car - those things were on the opposite side of the house. That side door also had a brick walk that led nowhere. The bricks had been there so long that many of them had sunk into the ground, causing the entire walk to look warped. It all added to the charm of the place.
To the right of the side door was a long row of old overgrown yew shrubs that ran the length of the house and hid who-knows-how-many woodland creatures. To the left side of the door was a bed of ivy that had not only climbed the outside wall of the house, but was well up onto the roof, too. A few feet away stood an old box elder tree which was home to numerous birds and squirrels. It was all very enchanting.
There was a proper all-weather door on that side of the house, but no screen door. When I realized the entertainment possibilities for the cats, I had an old-style screen door installed, the kind that's more screen than door. The cats would gather around it and watch the critters outside come and go. Eventually, I took to putting out sunflower seeds and ears of corn to attract even more critters.
It was the chipmunks who made that brick walk a daily feature of their routines. Squirrels, mice, and the occasional bird would stop by, but the chipmunks really took over. No one was more enthused about that than Spanky. He loved their quick movements, and the way their tails twitched. He could sit, mesmerized, for hours! Chipmuks were by far his favorite animals.
When I moved to the house I'm in now, it took me a while to notice that there weren't any chipmunks. At all. This puzzles me because there's a wooded property adjacent to my own, with a field of tall grass between us. Maybe the chipmunks don't feel the need to wander past their woods, I don't know. I just know that there are none on my property.
I gave some thought to putting out something tempting to attract the little rodents, but quickly nixed the idea because I don't want to attract raccoons, as well. One of my first nights in this house, I heard a noise, looked out the front window and saw a large raccoon sitting on top of one of my garbage cans, trying to get the lid off the other. Don't get me wrong - I like raccoons. I just don't want to encourage them to hang around.
So Spanky and I are both a little depressed about the lack of chipmuks. I really miss having them around. I love how cheerful and carefree they are, and they're cute as buttons besides. If I could figure out a way to have a whole family of them living on the property, I would.
It's hard trying to explain their absence to Spanky, who doesn't understand why they want to stay in the woods when they could come over and "play" with him. I've tried to distract him by pointing out visiting rabbits and squirrels, but he's just not interested. I can't blame him; it's not the same at all.
I don't have a happy ending for this story, just some cautionary advice to enjoy what you have while you have it. I spent four years smiling over those chipmunks. Hell, I spent time staring at them through the screen door, too! I'd hunker down on the floor, surrounded by cats, and grin over their antics. It's surprising, now, how large a presence they were in our lives: there's definitely a quiet place where chipmuks used to be. Dang it!
That's all for now, folks. I hope you're able to take a few minutes out of your day and enjoy your four-legged neighbors. They can be such fun to watch! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're having a great summer.
As you may have noticed, I misspelled the word "chipmunks" in the title. I did that on purpose. My orange tabby, Spanky, calls them "chipmuks." It doesn't matter to me what he calls them, and I don't think Spanky's much of a speller anyway. I just know that he and I both like the little critters.
Before I moved into my current house, I rented one on an old estate. I loved that place! It had quirky features to it, and the sort of character that new houses just don't have. The whole south-facing side of the house had huge windows, with these big wide sills that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever other than to provide my cats with a comfortable spot for bird-watching.
There was a side door on the house that led nowhere, other than the vast expanse of the estate itself. It's not like you'd use that door to take out the garbage, or go to your car - those things were on the opposite side of the house. That side door also had a brick walk that led nowhere. The bricks had been there so long that many of them had sunk into the ground, causing the entire walk to look warped. It all added to the charm of the place.
To the right of the side door was a long row of old overgrown yew shrubs that ran the length of the house and hid who-knows-how-many woodland creatures. To the left side of the door was a bed of ivy that had not only climbed the outside wall of the house, but was well up onto the roof, too. A few feet away stood an old box elder tree which was home to numerous birds and squirrels. It was all very enchanting.
There was a proper all-weather door on that side of the house, but no screen door. When I realized the entertainment possibilities for the cats, I had an old-style screen door installed, the kind that's more screen than door. The cats would gather around it and watch the critters outside come and go. Eventually, I took to putting out sunflower seeds and ears of corn to attract even more critters.
It was the chipmunks who made that brick walk a daily feature of their routines. Squirrels, mice, and the occasional bird would stop by, but the chipmunks really took over. No one was more enthused about that than Spanky. He loved their quick movements, and the way their tails twitched. He could sit, mesmerized, for hours! Chipmuks were by far his favorite animals.
When I moved to the house I'm in now, it took me a while to notice that there weren't any chipmunks. At all. This puzzles me because there's a wooded property adjacent to my own, with a field of tall grass between us. Maybe the chipmunks don't feel the need to wander past their woods, I don't know. I just know that there are none on my property.
I gave some thought to putting out something tempting to attract the little rodents, but quickly nixed the idea because I don't want to attract raccoons, as well. One of my first nights in this house, I heard a noise, looked out the front window and saw a large raccoon sitting on top of one of my garbage cans, trying to get the lid off the other. Don't get me wrong - I like raccoons. I just don't want to encourage them to hang around.
So Spanky and I are both a little depressed about the lack of chipmuks. I really miss having them around. I love how cheerful and carefree they are, and they're cute as buttons besides. If I could figure out a way to have a whole family of them living on the property, I would.
It's hard trying to explain their absence to Spanky, who doesn't understand why they want to stay in the woods when they could come over and "play" with him. I've tried to distract him by pointing out visiting rabbits and squirrels, but he's just not interested. I can't blame him; it's not the same at all.
I don't have a happy ending for this story, just some cautionary advice to enjoy what you have while you have it. I spent four years smiling over those chipmunks. Hell, I spent time staring at them through the screen door, too! I'd hunker down on the floor, surrounded by cats, and grin over their antics. It's surprising, now, how large a presence they were in our lives: there's definitely a quiet place where chipmuks used to be. Dang it!
That's all for now, folks. I hope you're able to take a few minutes out of your day and enjoy your four-legged neighbors. They can be such fun to watch! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Case of the Injured Goose
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope your summer is being a good one.
Well, if you've got a Canada goose in trouble, who ya gonna call? That's right, the Critter Lady, which is what Nancy from the Healing Barn did the other night. I was just settling in for an evening of mediocre t.v. when I heard someone leaving a voicemail. I picked up and Nancy told me that her sister and step-mother had come across an injured goose during their walk near a local pond (not McKinnon's Pond).
The women had been able to get pretty close to the goose, they just didn't know what to do with it once they caught it. They called Nancy, and Nancy called me. I said, "Of course I'll help," and hopped into the car without bothering to change out of my sweats. I found Nancy's family easily enough, and they pointed to a goose who was off in a patch of grass eating, not too far away.
Apparently, fishing line had almost cut his foot off, and indeed, when I glanced in his direction, I could see the foot dangling by a shred of skin. It was a sad and gruesome sight. Sighing, I asked which one of the assembled women wanted to try to catch the goose. Nancy hadn't arrived yet, so her sister volunteered. I don't know why I bothered asking though, because it's always me that ends up doing the work!
In all fairness, it should be noted that the sister was perfectly willing (and no doubt able) to make the attempt. I usually end up doing the work because I'm the most experienced, and the most confident. In this instance, I asked for a volunteer because in my view, this was their rescue, and I didn't want it to seem like I was taking over. I see now, though, that someone needs to be in charge of things, if the mission is to be accomplished, and being a Scorpio, I'm pretty good at being in charge.
So I had everyone (Nancy had joined us at this point) range around the goose in a semi-circle, being careful not to move too quickly. I didn't want him so scared that he'd fly away. But I needn't have worried: he didn't seem to know that he was supposed to be afraid of us. I managed to get within a few feet of the goose, and every now and then, he'd look up at me with a sort of calm curiosity.
As I inched closer, I'd quietly reassure him that he was a Very Good Goose indeed. When I was close enough to grab him, I asked Nancy's sister for the blanket she was going to throw over him, she handed it to me, and I tossed it over him. He let out a squawk, put up what seemed like a perfunctory amount of fight, and then was still.
His head was covered by the blanket, which had been intentional: I've heard that geese can be very aggressive fighters, and I didn't want to be wounded in the line of duty! The women lifted up the back of the blanket, though, and took a good look at the foot. It was hanging by a thread, and it was dead and useless. It would have to be removed.
I knew that Nancy was accustomed to doing gross things with horses (cleaning pus-filled wounds in hooves comes to mind), so I figured she'd have no problem manning the scissors. "I have a pair between the front seats of my car," I told her. Which is exactly where she looked.
It's funny, how you mean something one way, and a person hears it another. What I meant to say - and probably should have said - was, "The scissors are in that box between my front seats. Just lift the lid." What Nancy heard was, "Somewhere between my two front seats is a pair of scissors that you'll have to look all over for." Funny, huh?! So I corrected myself, she found the scissors, and with one snip, the foot was off.
As I write this, the foot is in a Zip-Loc bag in my fridge. I brought it home so that I could take pictures of it - to go with the pictures of the one-footed goose that I took that night. You never know when you'll need the gory evidence! Boyfriend John (now Fiance John) has agreed to give the foot a respectful burial out back in his pet cemetary this weekend.
In any case, we stood for some time debating what to do with the goose. As I held him, he voiced his opinion about the proceedings the same way my ducks do: he pooped all over. Unfortunately, my right leg was in the line of fire! By the time I headed home, I had goose poop trailing all the way down the back of my right leg! Well, me and my sweats are washable, so what do I care?!
We made a couple of phone calls to various wildlife rehab services, but they're always too busy to answer their phones, and this night was no exception. There was some discussion about who would take the goose home for the night (and feed and water him, and deal with loads of goose poop), before taking him to a vet the next day, but we couldn't really settle ourselves to any one thing.
It was turning into the sort of hassle that no one needed, and even Officer Jeff wasn't answering his phone! I couldn't blame him: as I listened to the incessant ringing on the line, I glanced at the clock in my car and saw that it was 9:15 p.m. It was time to put this situation to bed.
It was Nancy who finally suggested that we simply release the goose. And why not? The worst was over, and apart from a dose of antibiotics, there was little anyone could do for him at that point. There seemed little reason to hang on to him. Besides, wild birds get notoriously stressed out when forced to deal with humans. Nancy's suggestion made sense.
We set the critter carrier down near the pond (after being pooped on, I transferred the goose from the blanket to my carrier), opened the door, and watched him get all tangled up and turned around, attempting to get out. He gave up trying fairly quickly and just plopped down where he was, half in and half out of the carrier. I walked up, then, took hold of him and gently pulled him out. I turned him right-way-round, let go, and watched him hobble off. He stood at water's edge considering the pond for a moment, then hopped in and swam away. Our work was done. I put the now-stinky-with-goose-poop carrier in my car and headed home.
It should be noted that this was not my first experience with fishing line injuries. I've seen this sort of thing before with the wild ducks at McKinnon's Pond. There was also an instance a few years back with one of my domestics, who had gotten caught on some line, dragged it back to her nest, and ended up tied to a branch, unable to move. Thank God I knew about her nest and was able to free her before she lost a foot to the line, or her life to an animal. It was a lucky break. Not all critters get so lucky.
I've been collecting fishing tackle for some time, now. Not at garage sales or stores, but at the pond. Every time I find more junk, I bring it home and put it in a bag, and put that bag with all the other bags on a shelf in my office. If you scroll around on this page, you'll see a picture of not only the one-footed goose, but also a pile of fishing lures, fish hooks, fishing line - any or all of which can do permanent damange to anything it comes in contact with, whether it's a wild animal, your pet, or your child. It doesn't take much to change a life for the worse forever.
I don't know whether or not it goes without saying that we shoud all be teaching our children to be very careful with their fishing gear, and that we should all be setting a good example as adults. I see far more grown men fishing at McKinnon's Pond than children, so I'm going to go out on a limb and accuse those careless slackers of making everyone look bad. Let's change that! Let's all be mindful that we're the stewards of this planet and that God (whichever one you pray to) is watching all of us, seeing what we're doing with His planet and His creatures. So far, we've not done a great job taking care of things.
That's all for now, folks. I'm going to close with a quote by Margaret Mead that I really like: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." Right on, Margaret!
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope your summer is being a good one.
Well, if you've got a Canada goose in trouble, who ya gonna call? That's right, the Critter Lady, which is what Nancy from the Healing Barn did the other night. I was just settling in for an evening of mediocre t.v. when I heard someone leaving a voicemail. I picked up and Nancy told me that her sister and step-mother had come across an injured goose during their walk near a local pond (not McKinnon's Pond).
The women had been able to get pretty close to the goose, they just didn't know what to do with it once they caught it. They called Nancy, and Nancy called me. I said, "Of course I'll help," and hopped into the car without bothering to change out of my sweats. I found Nancy's family easily enough, and they pointed to a goose who was off in a patch of grass eating, not too far away.
Apparently, fishing line had almost cut his foot off, and indeed, when I glanced in his direction, I could see the foot dangling by a shred of skin. It was a sad and gruesome sight. Sighing, I asked which one of the assembled women wanted to try to catch the goose. Nancy hadn't arrived yet, so her sister volunteered. I don't know why I bothered asking though, because it's always me that ends up doing the work!
In all fairness, it should be noted that the sister was perfectly willing (and no doubt able) to make the attempt. I usually end up doing the work because I'm the most experienced, and the most confident. In this instance, I asked for a volunteer because in my view, this was their rescue, and I didn't want it to seem like I was taking over. I see now, though, that someone needs to be in charge of things, if the mission is to be accomplished, and being a Scorpio, I'm pretty good at being in charge.
So I had everyone (Nancy had joined us at this point) range around the goose in a semi-circle, being careful not to move too quickly. I didn't want him so scared that he'd fly away. But I needn't have worried: he didn't seem to know that he was supposed to be afraid of us. I managed to get within a few feet of the goose, and every now and then, he'd look up at me with a sort of calm curiosity.
As I inched closer, I'd quietly reassure him that he was a Very Good Goose indeed. When I was close enough to grab him, I asked Nancy's sister for the blanket she was going to throw over him, she handed it to me, and I tossed it over him. He let out a squawk, put up what seemed like a perfunctory amount of fight, and then was still.
His head was covered by the blanket, which had been intentional: I've heard that geese can be very aggressive fighters, and I didn't want to be wounded in the line of duty! The women lifted up the back of the blanket, though, and took a good look at the foot. It was hanging by a thread, and it was dead and useless. It would have to be removed.
I knew that Nancy was accustomed to doing gross things with horses (cleaning pus-filled wounds in hooves comes to mind), so I figured she'd have no problem manning the scissors. "I have a pair between the front seats of my car," I told her. Which is exactly where she looked.
It's funny, how you mean something one way, and a person hears it another. What I meant to say - and probably should have said - was, "The scissors are in that box between my front seats. Just lift the lid." What Nancy heard was, "Somewhere between my two front seats is a pair of scissors that you'll have to look all over for." Funny, huh?! So I corrected myself, she found the scissors, and with one snip, the foot was off.
As I write this, the foot is in a Zip-Loc bag in my fridge. I brought it home so that I could take pictures of it - to go with the pictures of the one-footed goose that I took that night. You never know when you'll need the gory evidence! Boyfriend John (now Fiance John) has agreed to give the foot a respectful burial out back in his pet cemetary this weekend.
In any case, we stood for some time debating what to do with the goose. As I held him, he voiced his opinion about the proceedings the same way my ducks do: he pooped all over. Unfortunately, my right leg was in the line of fire! By the time I headed home, I had goose poop trailing all the way down the back of my right leg! Well, me and my sweats are washable, so what do I care?!
We made a couple of phone calls to various wildlife rehab services, but they're always too busy to answer their phones, and this night was no exception. There was some discussion about who would take the goose home for the night (and feed and water him, and deal with loads of goose poop), before taking him to a vet the next day, but we couldn't really settle ourselves to any one thing.
It was turning into the sort of hassle that no one needed, and even Officer Jeff wasn't answering his phone! I couldn't blame him: as I listened to the incessant ringing on the line, I glanced at the clock in my car and saw that it was 9:15 p.m. It was time to put this situation to bed.
It was Nancy who finally suggested that we simply release the goose. And why not? The worst was over, and apart from a dose of antibiotics, there was little anyone could do for him at that point. There seemed little reason to hang on to him. Besides, wild birds get notoriously stressed out when forced to deal with humans. Nancy's suggestion made sense.
We set the critter carrier down near the pond (after being pooped on, I transferred the goose from the blanket to my carrier), opened the door, and watched him get all tangled up and turned around, attempting to get out. He gave up trying fairly quickly and just plopped down where he was, half in and half out of the carrier. I walked up, then, took hold of him and gently pulled him out. I turned him right-way-round, let go, and watched him hobble off. He stood at water's edge considering the pond for a moment, then hopped in and swam away. Our work was done. I put the now-stinky-with-goose-poop carrier in my car and headed home.
It should be noted that this was not my first experience with fishing line injuries. I've seen this sort of thing before with the wild ducks at McKinnon's Pond. There was also an instance a few years back with one of my domestics, who had gotten caught on some line, dragged it back to her nest, and ended up tied to a branch, unable to move. Thank God I knew about her nest and was able to free her before she lost a foot to the line, or her life to an animal. It was a lucky break. Not all critters get so lucky.
I've been collecting fishing tackle for some time, now. Not at garage sales or stores, but at the pond. Every time I find more junk, I bring it home and put it in a bag, and put that bag with all the other bags on a shelf in my office. If you scroll around on this page, you'll see a picture of not only the one-footed goose, but also a pile of fishing lures, fish hooks, fishing line - any or all of which can do permanent damange to anything it comes in contact with, whether it's a wild animal, your pet, or your child. It doesn't take much to change a life for the worse forever.
I don't know whether or not it goes without saying that we shoud all be teaching our children to be very careful with their fishing gear, and that we should all be setting a good example as adults. I see far more grown men fishing at McKinnon's Pond than children, so I'm going to go out on a limb and accuse those careless slackers of making everyone look bad. Let's change that! Let's all be mindful that we're the stewards of this planet and that God (whichever one you pray to) is watching all of us, seeing what we're doing with His planet and His creatures. So far, we've not done a great job taking care of things.
That's all for now, folks. I'm going to close with a quote by Margaret Mead that I really like: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." Right on, Margaret!
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
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